


The Rift Between Us

by elsbeththewitch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Romance, this is turning into a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-10 19:53:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsbeththewitch/pseuds/elsbeththewitch
Summary: Budding love will bridge the vast rift between a former Templar and a Mage.





	1. The Sound of Your Voice

**Author's Note:**

> My own take on the romance between Cullen and female human mage (Trevelyan) Inquisitor from the start of Dragon Age: Inquisition all the way through its DLCs. There will eventually be explicit sex scenes, assuming anyone's interested in this fic and assuming I have time. T_T Once I get to those scenes, I'll be updating the fic's rating.

**First Days at Haven**

The Templars at Ostwick had always maintained a certain distance. And not just physical. Evelyn grew up believing that distance was safer. Less painful. She knew a few names and faces, such as Knight-Captain Powell and Knight-Commander Amosson, and she remembered the name of the Templar who oversaw her Harrowing—Isla Weeks.

But the ones who stood like silent, stone sentinels in the halls, their faces hidden behind gleaming metal helms? They were never more real to her than the King of Ferelden.

Some of her fellow mages felt differently, but Evelyn didn’t go out of her way to interact with any of those faceless statues. She didn’t want to see beneath their helms or learn their names. Why make friends when they might one day have to cut her down?

She would rather they not hesitate than allow her to hurt anyone. She would rather they not feel remorse for doing their duties. Most of all, she would rather not be reminded every time she saw a familiar face that it might one day be hardened in preparation to run her through.

So it was with some trepidation that she first approached the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Even if he hadn’t admitted it the first time they all met to discuss sealing the Breach, she’d have known he was a Templar. Something about his bearing, and certainly the way the air stilled around him, though not nearly as much as she’d have expected from a man who had likely served at least a dozen years, judging from the faint lines around his eyes. Learning that he had also been in Kirkwall… Well, she braced herself for his instant condemnation.

But the Commander made it clear from the start that he was more concerned with preventing further chaos and closing the Breach than choosing a side. He wanted to be part of the solution for healing the rift between Templars and mages.

She hadn’t expected that—a Templar loyal to the principles of his Order rather than the Order itself. She hadn’t expected him to be so passionate. He wanted to save lives, to have peace. Her trepidation quickly evaporated.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that he also had a soldier’s physique, a charming smile, warm eyes, and a voice like velvet. He had laughed when she offered to listen to him lecture on the Inquisition’s potential, but she only half-joked. She’d have listen to him read the inventory of a supply shipment if it meant indulging her ears a few minutes more.

She looked for him first whenever her advisers gathered at the war table to offer their council. Though her efforts as the Herald were not for him alone, she felt…pride whenever he nodded in satisfaction at promising reports or at news of the Inquisition’s growing influence. Yes, merely pride. Glowing warmly in her chest.

Whenever she returned to Haven with new agents from the Hinterlands or a task to set the Inquisition’s resources upon, she found herself lingering in the training yard outside Haven’s gate, where the Commander indulged her questions about his past. That they had both been part of Circle life meant an instant understanding of its…nuances, but she realized that as much as she had seen of Templars at the Ostwick Circle, she didn’t know the minutia of how a Templar was recruited, the amount of training they underwent, or the vows they took.

Her heart had pounded when she asked the Commander whether he, like some Templars, had taken a vow to abstain from physical pleasure. At the time, she dared not examine from where such a question had come—or her audacity to ask it the way she did. Despite his stammering bashfulness at her interest, or perhaps in addition to it, knowing he hadn’t made any such vow put a spring in her step for the rest of the day.

The closer they came to approaching either the Templars or the mages for assistance in sealing the Breach, the harder it became to deny that she would take any excuse to speak with him. Wherever he was, she lingered. For as long as possible. She wanted to know more about him, to understand the past hurts that made him avoid certain topics, to know if he might ever pay as much attention to her as she did to him, and to listen to his voice as much as he would let her.

“Watch your feet, recruit,” the Commander yelled as pair of combatants engaged in melee. “You lose your balance in a real fight and it’s over.”

Evelyn stood at the edge of the training grounds, ostensibly to watch the newest recruits learn to use a sword and shield, but really just to hear the Commander shout at them. One of his gloved hands rested on the pommel of his sword while the other pointed at a recruit who had dropped their shield. She idly wondered if she had ever seen his bare hands.

“Ah, Herald,” the Commander called, turning to her. ”I met the Warden you tracked down. Blackwall, was it?”

“That’s right.” She drew closer, her heart lifting. “We found him not far from the Crossroads.”

“It’s a pity he did not know the reasons behind the Wardens’ disappearance, but you did well in persuading him to join our cause.” He smiled slightly, one corner of his mouth curling. That warm glow filled her chest—pride, of course, at a job well done.

“Perhaps he can still lead us to some answers,” she said. “It makes me anxious, wondering why the Wardens might suddenly vanish.”

“Indeed,” he said gravely. “There’s enough to worry about already without the threat of another Blight.”

Right,  _another_  Blight. Though the Commander had been in Ferelden at the time of the Fifth Blight, he had said that troubles at the Circle there had been his main concern. He was also reluctant to talk with her about whatever incident had occurred. Perhaps Leliana would know, but despite her curiosity, Evelyn refrained from asking the Spymaster. She’d much rather earn enough of his trust to hear the story from his lips.

“Uh, everything all right here?” she asked. “Anything I should know?”

“Here?” The Commander looked behind him at the nearly three dozen soldiers sparring. “Herald, these men and women are raw recruits who arrived after your efforts to stabilize the Hinterlands. Our numbers grow and, I assure you, most  _can_  actually hold a shield properly.”

“O-oh,” she said, realizing she had implied concern over the soldiers’ training. “Of course, Commander. I did not mean to—I know you are producing a formidable force. You turn the most inexperienced recruits into excellent soldiers. I’ve seen it.”

That lopsided smile returned, bigger than ever.

“Yes, I know you have,” he said softly.

Oh Maker, had she been bothering him? Worse, did he think her loitering was quaint? She touched her hand to her burning cheek before hiding it behind her back.

“Right, I…” Didn’t know what else to say. She was leaving for Redcliffe within the hour to determine the motives behind a Tevinter magister taking over the rebel mages, but the Commander already knew that.

At her silence, he cleared his throat, his smile wavering. His gaze slid away to a pair of recruits. But she didn’t want to walk away just yet. If only they could speak another moment.

“You there! Don’t hesitate when there’s an opening,” the Commander shouted. “Your enemy certainly won’t.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I should leave you to it,” she said reluctantly. The Commander turned back to her, both hands coming to rest on his pommel.

“I wish you luck in Redcliffe, Herald. And I…pray for your safe return.” Though he had pushed for a Templar alliance, he spoke sincerely. The tinge of concern in his voice placed a pleasant pressure on her heart. She couldn’t help a small smile.

“I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

**The Mage Alliance Secured**

_What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight?_

Evelyn stared down at the war map, her eyes fixed on the fist-shaped marker sitting over the holdings of a Fereldan lord. Her ears and cheeks still burned from the Commander’s reprimand. Hearing that smoky voice castigate her had been…difficult. She stood by her decision to offer a full alliance with the rebel mages, but to hear the Commander vehemently demand that her fellow mages be  _leashed_ …

"Herald. I did not expect to find you here.”

She looked up at the entrance to the war room where the Commander stood, a letter in his gloved hand. The warm glow he usually evoked in her was now a sharp burn. Anger, to be sure. It certainly couldn’t be disappointment…or shame.

“Josephine has news of her efforts to sway some of the Chantry clerics. I’m simply waiting for her,” she explained, standing straight. The Commander continued into the room, his footsteps falling heavily.

“Well, if that was Lady Malet I heard with our Ambassador, you may be waiting a while,” he joked. It would have made her smile before, but now? She wanted to leave, especially if Josephine could not arrive soon. The Commander cleared his throat. “I, uh, have a letter here that I’d like to share with you,” he said, holding out a curled sheet of parchment, which she took. “Knight-Commander Brycen of the Circle in Hasmal is requesting the Inquisition’s aid in securing the tower there and escorting a group of loyalist mages to our care. I thought I might send a few of our Templars to assist her.”

Evelyn glanced over the Knight-Commander’s letter. Though it was refreshing to hear of a group of Templars and mages who  _weren’t_  trying to kill each other, seeing the letter refer to mages as “charges” irritated her. It hadn’t used to. All Knight-Commander Brycen wanted was to fulfill her duty to protect these mages. How could Commander Cullen not see that Enchanter Fiona had only wanted the same?

She looked up at the Commander without lifting her head. “More mages, Commander? Are you sure?” Her eyes returned to the letter as she turned to set it on the table. “You’re not worried that one of them might, I don’t know, save us all from another Blight?”

"I…I was not— _am_  not wrong in my concerns,” he said, his voice hardening. She took a deep breath and raised her head. “The tear in the Veil makes it far easier for demons to prey upon mages. And that’s  _before_  we march a group of them up to the Breach where who knows what could happen.”

"All the rebel mages have wanted is the chance to prove themselves, Commander, and you would rather take that chance away,” she accused.

“They had their chance,” he said, “and they threw their lot in with a Tevinter magister. You  _saw_  the future he and this Elder One would have made—could still make!”

“They were  _scared_ ,” she said. “The Conclave had just been destroyed. They had  _no_  allies. Alexius was not only a fellow mage, but someone with power and resources—”

“Yes, power,” he said with a sneer. “Give a mage power and see what they do with it. They toy with blood magic and summon demons. Alexius was ripping holes in time!”

She clenched her jaw and stepped closer to point her finger at his face. “And who helped us stop him?” she challenged. “Who helped our agents infiltrate the castle?”

“Dorian was Alexius’s apprentice. They  _created_  the amulet Alexius was using.”

“And Dorian knew it was too dangerous to use. You cannot condemn the actions of one mage and ignore the deeds of another.”

“It only takes one mage,” he retorted. “Just one was enough to destroy the entire Kirkwall Chantry.” He loomed over her, forcing her not only to cede the step she had just taken, but to take another step back. She felt the edge of the table against the back of her legs.

“And how did your former Knight-Commander react?” she asked, steeling her spine. “Did she see it was only one apostate, or did she invoke the Right of Annulment on an  _entire_  Circle?”

“Knight-Commander Meredith had been driven mad, and I fought alongside the Champion to stop her.”

“Yes, the Champion,” she said hotly. “Who is a  _mage_ …like me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but blinked and said nothing. His slanted brows turned up. The hard lines of his face softened. Maker’s breath, his face was close.  _He_  was close. His brown eyes, hot with anger, dropped to her mouth. She could smell the polish on his armor, and beneath that…

The Commander quickly moved back, nearly to the door. Grimacing, he rubbed the side of his neck with one hand while the other rested on his sword. She wondered if her face was as red as his. Probably, if her rapid pulse were any indication.

“Apologies, Herald,” he said, glancing at her with contrition. “I did not mean to suggest that you are anything but invaluable to this Inquisition.”

_None of this means anything without your mark, after all._

Of course. She had the mark. She was the Herald of Andraste. He didn’t think of her as anything else.

“Seeker Cassandra had it right,” he continued. “The goal was to secure their aid, which you did.”

The sharp burn in her chest had vanished. Now she felt hollow.

“My apologies as well,” she said, easing off the table. “I do greatly value your council, Commander. It was unfair of me to dismiss your concerns.”

Her words seemed to put him more at ease. She looked down at the letter from Brycen, now a little crumpled from bracing her hand on it. She grasped it as well as the opportunity to clear the air.

“Ah, I…believe you are right to send Templars to Hasmal’s Circle,” she said earnestly. “We would gain more Templars as well as mages, and all of them level-headed.”

“Yes, I thought as much,” he said. “I’m glad you agree.”

“The Inquisition will be in touch, Lady Malet.” Josephine’s lyrical voice echoed from the nave of the Chantry. The Commander glanced over his shoulder. When his gaze returned, he seemed to…want something. A bit of tension between his eyes, parted lips.

“Herald, I…” he began, but Josephine bustled into the room, her candlelit board propped on her hip as usual.

“Please pardon my tardiness,” she said with exasperation. “Lady Malet is meticulous when it comes to the manner in which her donation to our cause is spent.”

“I’m sure the Inquisition is grateful for any support it can get right now,” Evelyn replied with a smile that she hoped reached her eyes.

“Ah, Commander Cullen,” Josephine greeted. “I hope I didn’t interrupt?”

“Was there anything else, Commander?” Evelyn asked, holding out Brycen’s letter to him.

“Uh, no. I believe that was all,” he said. “I will inform you when the Knight-Commander and her people arrive.”

“Very well,” she replied coolly.

The Commander’s jaw flexed when he took the letter from her. He turned on his heel and left. As soon as the door closed behind him, the invisible band around her chest eased. She turned to Josephine, whose eyebrows perched high on her forehead.

“ _Did_  I interrupt something?”

“Of course not, Ambassador,” she asserted. It was easier to smile this time.

_That would assume there was something to interrupt in the first place._

* * *

**Lyrium Studies**

_The red stuff is lyrium like a dragon is a lizard._

“Yeah, not really my favorite subject,” Varric said.

“Thank you for telling me,” Evelyn said. “I’m certain it’s involved somehow.”

“As much as I  _want_  to tell myself it’s just a coincidence—I mean, did you  _see_  how much of that shit was up there? Way more than a sliver.”

“Is it possible someone else found that ancient thaig?” she asked.

“It’s either that, or Solas was right. I don’t know which is worse,” Varric scoffed. “Anyway, something we can look into  _after_  you and the other skirts seal the Breach. Good luck, Herald.”

Evelyn turned away from the fire where Varric was warming his hands only to find the Commander coming up the steps leading from the training grounds to the Haven Chantry. His eyebrows turned up with curiosity.

For a second, Evelyn contemplated giving the Commander a single nod and beating a hasty retreat…somewhere—but her next destination was also his. As he ascended the last of the stairs, she squared her shoulders and braced herself.

A flicker of that soft warmth still flared in her chest at the sight of him, but she dared not nurture it. Unfortunately, simply being in his presence was enough, so except for their meetings around the war table, Evelyn avoided all conversation with the Commander. She stayed away from the training grounds. Didn’t even look in his direction lest she accidentally meet his gaze.

That said, even as she and her advisors stood around a map of Thedas, planning how best to deploy the Inquisition’s resources, she sometimes still remembered the way the Commander had trapped her against the table’s edge. The smallest movement of her hand would have put her fingers on his arm. She remembered the creak of his leather gloves and the split second when he glanced at her mouth.

If her red cheeks had ever betrayed her, none of her advisors had seen fit to comment.

“Commander,” she greeted with a nod and a small smile. “On your way to the war room?” She swept her hand in a silent gesture to walk with her.

“I am,” he said, falling into a leisurely stroll beside her. “I saw you speaking with Varric just now. Was he regaling you with tales of his exploits with the Champion?”

Up ahead just outside the Chantry, two dozen of their most experienced mages awaited an escort to the broken Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“I did ask,” she admitted, “but I was more interested in his history with red lyrium.”

“Yes, of course. A great deal of it was found at the temple.”

“Far more than what had—” She faltered, realizing she was about to invoke the name of his former Knight-Commander. “What had…driven his brother mad.”

“Yes, I…know very well what happens to those who…interact with it,” he said gently. “We should take care that no one remains in the temple any longer than necessary.”

“Agreed,” she said as they passed through the throng of mages and entered the Chantry. “I don’t believe I ever told you, Commander, but after my Harrowing, my main area of study was lyrium.”

“Oh. That’s…rather fortunate,” he said awkwardly. She glanced at him, wondering at his mood. Did the reminder that she was a mage make him feel uncomfortable?

“Considering the hole in the sky, it probably would have been better if I had studied the Fade,” she joked. That got a smile out of him.

“I can’t imagine the Templars at Ostwick allowed anyone but Tranquil to handle lyrium.” He stopped in the center of the nave. “Allowing a mage access to the power lyrium grants, even temporarily…”

“You would be right, Commander. Though the Circle’s Tranquil  _were_  helpful, my studies were scholarly rather than experimental,” she explained. “I gathered whatever tome or scrap I could. Anything that might hold some small detail about the properties of lyrium. That was challenge enough when the dwarves’ Mining Caste refused to answer any of my queries and the Knight-Commander wished to know why I was seeking the diaries of a Fereldan Templar who documented his dementia after decades of lyrium use…while he could, of course.”

“No doubt the Chantry was more concerned about your curiosity than the Knight-Commander,” the Commander said. “The Chantry relies on its control of the lyrium trade to wield power over the Order. It is possible that he wrote to the Chantry in Ferelden on your behalf only to be told that your request was impossible.”

“I see,” Evelyn said.

“Perhaps the Inquisition can obtain these documents for you,” he suggested. “I still have several contacts in the Order, most of them in Ferelden.”

The favor that the Commander offered was surely trivial—a letter or two that very well could lead to nothing—but the kind, earnest smile that accompanied his offer… Oh Maker, that little flicker of warmth in her chest was catching and growing.

“I would appreciate that,” she said, returning his smile.

The Commander’s smile broadened and he seemed to puff his chest out a little. Heat crawled up her face.

Evelyn continued toward the war room.  _Don’t nurture it._

“Solas theorized that whatever magic caused the Breach may have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple and corrupted it,” she said as the Commander kept pace. “But I wonder if it was the magic or the Breach itself. Or…perhaps even a third explanation.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, pushing open the door to the war room. Only Leliana awaited them. She briefly glanced up from a missive she was reading.

“Consider what we know of lyrium, Commander,” she implored, speaking softly for Leliana’s benefit. The Commander stepped closer to hear her.  _Don’t nurture it. Don’t nurture it._ “I-it has a tangible but unknown connection to the Fade. If the Breach is what corrupted the lyrium in the temple, it makes me wonder what formed the red lyrium in that ancient thaig Varric found.”

“Did Varric say how ancient?” he asked, matching her volume. Andraste preserve her, how she loved his voice this soft and close.

“I b-believe he said ‘so old it barely looked dwarven,'” she recalled. Was he looking at her mouth? “He and the Champion also obtained part of a dwarven report written in the Blessed Age that refers to the thaig. He promised to send for a copy.”

“I would be interested to hear what you learn, Herald,” the Commander said, raising his eyes to meet her gaze. In the nave behind them, she heard Josephine greet Cassandra, and a movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention to Leliana, who watched them with a small smile.

“Of course, Commander,” she said, hastily stepping away to approach the war table. To the Spymaster, she said, “I wager we’re ready to start.”

_Don’t nurture it, Evelyn. That door must stay closed._

* * *

**Haven Buried**

_If we are to survive—if_ you _are to survive—let that thing hear you._

Evelyn stood at the mouth of a tunnel and stared out at the dark, frigid landscape—mounds of white under a black sky. Strong winds lifted great sheets of snow and flung them in an icy spray. No signs of civilization other than a partially buried wagon a short distance away, still aflame.

How far from Haven had the mine led her? None of the surrounding trees were uprooted from the avalanche, so which side of the mountain was this? Had all of their people gotten out? Had the Commander?

She leaned heavily on her staff and gently probed the ache in her side. Possibly a cracked rib, or a bruised one at the very least. Her left boot also felt tight, likely a sprained ankle. She shouldn’t walk on it, but she had to push forward into that cold darkness. She had to find them, find  _him_. She needed to hear his voice one more time.

At least there didn’t seem to be any more demons, thank the Maker. After stowing her staff, she briefly studied the Mark on her hand, wondering how it had destroyed so many demons so quickly. Then, arms held up in front of her, she stepped out of the tunnel. The burning wagon might have some sort of sign. It certainly had a little warmth.

But the flames died just as she reached it, snuffed out by the snow. A quick glance told her the wagon bore no clue as to where she was or in which direction the Inquisition had gone.

Chancellor Roderick had shown them to a path, one that led to the temple farther up. And that flaming arrow, which had signaled her to kick the trebuchet’s lever… They were at least above the tree line, then. Should she head that way, up the mountain? Evelyn looked behind her at the dark mouth of the mine and the shelter it promised from the wind and snow.

Of course she should head up the mountain. The Inquisition needed her  _now_. She couldn’t know whether the avalanche had been smaller than hoped, whether it had stopped the invading force. And if the Inquisition still fled for their lives… If he… She had no other alternative.

_One foot in front of the other._  She trudged past the broken wagon, which the wind would completely bury in less than an hour. Her left ankle twinged with every step. Mending it would take time she didn’t have and focus she couldn’t maintain. So she did her best to keep her weight off it and otherwise ignored it.

Black, billowing trees slowly passed behind her as she marched uphill. Damp snow clung to her leather breeches where her legs had sunk into the small dunes blocking her most direct path. It snuck inside her damp clothing and chilled every exposed inch of her skin. Her fingers began to ache. Then the tip of her nose and the shells of her ears. She rubbed warmth into them, but it never lasted longer than a few seconds.

She tried not to entertain her worst fears. Of never finding them. Of collapsing into the snow and eventually disappearing like that broken wagon. Of a Red Templar cutting down the Commander and the others. Of that terrible future…

But her fears were all-consuming. She was alone. The wind howled and scraped at her. Her legs ached, yet the exercise did nothing to ward off the cold. Worst was the painful chill in her throat from breathing in the frigid air.

Maker, why had she provoked him after recruiting the mages? He had accepted the outcome of her decision, and she  _knew_  he was right to propose safety measures. Yet all she had heard was his chiding.

And why had she broken her own rule, for that matter? Distance  _was_  safer. Even though the Commander had left the Order, he would always be a Templar. And she would always be a mage. There would always be a rift between them. Why she had thought it could be any different…?

But…it  _had_  been different. He'd admitted the injustices Templars sometimes inflicted upon mages. And she knew all too well that some mages were weak to possession or easily turned to blood magic.

Perhaps she and the Commander could meet in the middle.

She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t let the war between Templars and mages rage on. Or let that awful future come about. They would need her mark. He…he would need her. And together…

The wind slowly died. After more than an hour of hiking, she had finally put the last of the trees behind her, but still saw no sign of the Inquisition. She kept telling herself that they had made it above the tree line, that she hadn’t actually buried them in the avalanche, that she would hear the Commander’s voice again.

She couldn’t feel her feet anymore. Each step was careful and deliberate, lest she stumble and be unable to rise. The ache in her side was now sharp and keen, as though someone had buried a knife in her flesh and then left it there. It was all she could do to keep breathing and moving forward.

Ahead. A fire? Well, the remains of one, tucked next to a collection of small boulders. She slowly approached, one agonizing step at a time.

“Embers,” she rasped aloud. “Recent?” Snow hadn’t filled in the circle of exposed ground surrounding the dead fire. Ash sprinkled the snow farther away where the breeze had carried it. This fire had died within the last half hour.

And behind it lay a narrow pass. Was that…light beyond?

Though she was hopeful, her legs grew heavier with every step. Her breaths came in ragged. She laboriously lifted her left leg from the hole in the snow it had made and swung it forward. Her leg sank farther than she expected, and she threw her hands out, nearly falling to her knees. The cold of the snow stung her fingertips like a poorly controlled fire spell. She snatched her hands up and tucked them under her arms as she straightened. Her knees wobbled beneath her.

She couldn’t die here. Not yet. She needed to hear his voice again.

The light was real. Campfires.

“There! It’s her!” a familiar, beloved voice called.

He was alive.His unmistakable outline ran toward her, and her knees gave out.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra said, but Evelyn kept her eyes on the Commander. He blurred as he whipped off his fur-trimmed mantle. No, she couldn’t cry. The tears would freeze on her cheeks.

The Commander dropped to his knees in front of her and wrapped the mantle about her shivering shoulders. It carried a familiar scent. His scent. He dragged her staff from its holster on her back and someone behind him took it.

“C-Commander,” Evelyn whispered as he pulled her hands from under her arms. He pressed one to his warm, rough cheek. The flicker of warmth in her chest flared into a bonfire.

“Maker, you’re frozen.” He pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth and slid her hand into it. It was soft and dry and still warm from the heat of his skin.

“I c-can’t stand,” she admitted as he did the same with his other glove. “My ankle…”

Immediately, his arm encircled her and gently drew her to him. He lifted her enough to slide his other arm under her knees and then stood with her safely tucked against his chest. He still wore his armor, but she already felt warmer.

“I have you, Evelyn. I have you,” he said next to her ear.

His voice. Soft and close. The bonfire inside her burned a little higher. She laid her head on his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Thank you…Cullen,” she breathed.

It could have been her imagination, but she swore that his arms tightened around her.


	2. The Look in Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on, this time from Cullen's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never quite liked one line of the chess-game cut-scene (the "you said that" because it doesn't entirely make sense as a response to me), so I've altered it. Please forgive my impertinence.

**Haven Buried**

Old habits die hard. Even though Cullen had put the Order behind him—and the doses of lyrium that granted Templars their abilities—he had seen the staff in the hand of an unfamiliar woman standing beside Lady Cassandra, and had instantly put up his guard. Granted, at the time he and his soldiers had been fighting off snarling demons while an enormous tear in the Fade had roared in the sky over the Temple of Sacred Ashes, so he hadn’t been in a terribly felicitous mood, but he hadn’t really seen her—Lady Trevelyan. _Evelyn._ All he had seen was a staff. And all he had cared about was keeping as many people alive as he could.

Once the urgency of battle had faded and Lady Cassandra had declared a new Inquisition, he had done his best to be open and helpful to the woman others were calling the “Herald of Andraste.”

Part of him had been expecting her to be, at best, aloof toward him. And yet she had sought him out for conversation. He had thought nothing of her questions about his life before joining the Inquisition. Rather, he’d felt it important to explain his reasons for accepting the position Lady Cassandra had offered. He had spent the better part of his life in the Order, and it had changed him into someone he didn’t like. The Inquisition sought peace, and it promised swift but tempered action. It promised redemption.

Eventually, he had realized he had been doing all the talking. Lecturing, one might say. To his surprise, the Herald hadn’t seemed to mind. She had quipped back something about listening to more, and then she had smiled…

That had been the moment he’d first really seen her. All at once, she’d come into sharp clarity. Long, auburn hair hanging over one shoulder in a loose braid. Cheeks a bit flushed from the cold. Pale pink lips spread wide in a gorgeous smile. But what had arrested him most was the brilliant green of her eyes. Emerald flecked with gold. Framed by thick, dark lashes.

He would see those expressive eyes often over the next few weeks while she quickly proved her dedication and competence. She watched him from the edge of the training yard, studied him from across the war table. Always her gaze seemed warm, rapt. Even appreciative. He tried to tell himself that her exuberance in his presence, whether they were engaged in casual conversation or discussing resource allocation with the other advisors, was merely her nature. But the teasing glint in her eyes when she’d asked about his Templar vows…and whether he’d forsaken “physical temptations”…

Maker’s breath.

He then made a mess of things, of course. He might have been more amenable to a full alliance with the rebel mages if they hadn’t jumped at the chance to align with Tevinter, but the Herald had declined to wield her leverage over Enchanter Fiona, and all he could think of was another…another tragedy like the one that had seen his fellow Templars at Ferelden’s Circle slaughtered.

Hurt had flashed across the Herald’s face when he’d raised his voice at her moments after her return to Haven. It did so again later in the war room when they’d argued anew. He hadn’t been wrong, but neither had she. And somehow, despite the staff holstered to her back, he had forgotten that she too was a mage. One who hadn’t asked for the mark on her hand, but who had already done so much for the Inquisition. One who, like the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, was a shining example of the good mages could do.

One whose beautiful eyes could stop his heart no matter if they gazed at him with warmth, mischief, or anger.

In the pregnant, silent moment after she’d reminded him she was also a mage, his anger had dissipated, and he’d realized he’d backed her against the war table. Their heated argument had already turned her cheeks pink, but then they flushed deep red. He couldn’t help glancing at her soft, open mouth. What would her eyes look like, he’d wondered, after a kiss?

Alarmed by that thought, he had jumped away from her as though she were a desire demon. They then had exchanged sincere apologies, but the moment had happened and he hadn’t wanted it to fade, lost in the mutual resentment between mages and Templars. He hadn’t wanted that spark to die.

But then Lady Josephine had arrived, and the Herald had practically dismissed him, her expression cool and distant. No warmth, no mischief.

The next few days had seen the result of their disagreement. She’d pass the training yard without a single glance in his direction. There were no more casual conversations. During meetings in the war room, she hardly even looked at him.

Gone were those expressive, emerald eyes. He missed them. Now whenever he caught a brief glimpse, her gaze revealed only hesitation and…sadness. She had looked at him with the former when he’d been on his way to the Haven Chantry and had spotted her bidding Varric farewell. He had worried she’d go ahead without him, but instead she’d lingered.

They had discussed the Champion, red lyrium, and her studies into lyrium in general. Hearing she’d had difficulty obtaining a copy of a Templar’s final diaries, he’d leapt at the opportunity to offer his aid. Anything that might banish that hesitation and bring back the warmth.

It had worked. Her gaze upon him had softened. It had twisted his insides, and yet also put strength in his spine.

He now struggled to recall the smile she’d given him. All he could remember was the grim determination on her face when she hadn’t responded to his question about how she’d escape the avalanche that would hopefully bury Haven and their pursuers.

Cullen added another piece of wood to the pile in his arms, and his stomach turned as he recalled yet again the last thing he’d said to her. _If we are to survive—if_ you _are to survive—let that thing hear you._

He had all but told her she would be bait. That she’d have to face an army of Red Templars and abominations, a dragon and this so-called “Elder One,” and also an avalanche. One that had been far larger than he’d expected. A mere moment after the archer had let their flaming arrow fly, he had seen the trebuchet launch. He’d watched a wall of snow slam down the mountain. Heard it crash into Haven. His heart had stopped.

Everyone’s hearts had stopped. The other advisors, the Herald’s companions… No one could speak, only stare. Leliana had been the first to turn away, then Lady Cassandra, who had looked shaken but had urged the rest of the Inquisition to keep moving. His throat had burned when he’d echoed her commands.

And now he was gathering firewood. They’d found a secluded pass and had set up tents for the wounded and the weary. The fire in the center of camp was already well fed and burning bright. The wood he carried would revive the other fire just beyond the mouth of the pass. It had gone out moments ago. Perhaps it was foolish to believe—to hope—that the Herald still lived.

But if the light of that fire brought her to them—to him, then it would burn all night.

“At least the storm has passed,” Lady Cassandra observed, watching him.

“Yes,” he agreed, jaw stiff. “She… The Herald may have taken shelter from it. I mean to revive the other fire.” Having gathered enough wood for another blaze, he made his way toward the mouth of the pass. Lady Cassandra fell into step beside him.

“We are all praying for her. After what we all saw…” Her voice faltered for a bare second. “Her companions who fought with her until the last, they said they almost didn’t make it. Varric said they were lucky.”

His back teeth clamped shut. He spoke without moving his jaw. “It was the Herald, not luck.”

“True” was Lady Cassandra’s only response.

She was quiet beside him as they neared the mouth of the pass. The light of the campfires behind them threw their enlarged shadows against the sheer stone. Their footsteps kicked the newer layer of powder over the older, icy snow beneath. _Swish, crunch. Swish, crunch._

The sound wasn’t only coming from beneath him, but ahead as well. Someone was there.

His heart seized. He tossed the wood aside. A figure emerged from the darkness, exhausted, limping. A staff was holstered to her back.

“There! It’s her!” he shouted, already jogging. He quickly pulled ahead of Lady Cassandra.

“Thank the Maker,” she said with relief.

The Herald collapsed to her knees. She held her shoulders high about her neck and had tucked her hands beneath her arms. She seemed to favor one side. Her arm pressed against her ribs as though she were injured there. The crimson in her cheeks and the shells of her ears spoke to the hours she’d spent in the open cold. Maker, had she hiked through that storm?

There were shouts behind him, some confused, others incredulous. He ignored it all, desperate to warm her as soon as possible. He doffed his mantle, sank to his knees before her, and drew it ‘round her tightly held shoulders. Her staff prevented him from tucking the fur trim against her neck, so he drew it from its holster and handed it to whoever stood behind him, likely Lady Cassandra.

As much as he wanted to look the Herald in the eye, he found he couldn’t. Instead he’d focused on her red, stiff hands. He drew them from beneath her arms.

“C-Commander,” she whispered. For half a heartbeat, he thought she would say his name, but no, it had been his title. He held one of her palms to his cheek. It was like ice.

“Maker, you’re frozen.” Her hand flexed as though the contact had startled her. But then she splayed her fingers and molded them to the curve of his cheek. He used his teeth to remove his glove and pulled it over her hand.

“I c-can’t stand,” she said, and sunk even deeper, it seemed, into the snow. He encased her other hand in his second glove. “My ankle…”

He didn’t hesitate. He knew he should first pull her arm across his shoulders and at least attempt to help her stand and walk. But part of him—no, not a part. His entirety. It needed to draw her to him, mindful of the tender injury in her side, and lift her into his arms.

He stood and turned toward camp, keeping his strides smooth and steady. Aware of Lady Cassandra and several others now surrounding them, he spoke at a volume only for her. “I have you, Evelyn. I have you.”

She relaxed in his hold. Her head came to rest upon his shoulder, and his heart leaped. He dared to glance at her face, so near to his own. Her eyes were shut, but her brows were turned up with relief. The firelight ahead limned her lovely features. Her soft breaths condensed in the cold air.

“Thank you…Cullen,” she whispered back. She’d said his name, after a pause, as though relishing it. He held his breath, held her closer. Oh Maker, he was lost now.

She was nearly unconscious by the time he neared the healer’s tent. Exhausted, no doubt. Knowing she felt safe enough in his arms to sleep was…affecting. And the solid weight of her in his grasp was far more satisfying than he should admit, even to himself.

Mother Giselle stood ready to tend to the Herald. “Here, Commander.” She gestured to an empty cot. It looked cold, but they of course hadn’t had time to bring along more than a few provisions.

He gently set the Herald’s lower half upon the cot. He’d have gladly let her keep his mantle for now—seeing it wrapped around her eased the ache in the center of his chest—but he knew it would be in the way, so he said nothing when another healer drew it from her shoulders. Reluctantly, he directed her to lie back and pulled away. Though her eyes were shut, tension furrowed her brow, as if the pain of her injuries prevented her from full rest.

“She was limping and mentioned her ankle,” he explained as Mother Giselle leaned over the Herald. “I also believe her right side sustained injury.”

“Thank you, Commander. We’ll take good care of her,” Mother Giselle promised in her soothing voice. The other healer held out Cullen’s mantle and gloves. He took them.

Lady Cassandra, whom he’d practically forgotten, set the Herald’s staff nearby. “We should plan our next move, Commander.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, still looking at the Herald while he donned his mantle. He wanted to think he might smell her on his clothing, but she hadn’t worn it more than a few minutes. Lady Cassandra left the healer’s tent, and he knew he should follow. The Herald…Evelyn…was in good hands. And if he wanted never to flee as they had ever again—never put her between the enemy and retreat again—then he had to ensure they were prepared for the next fight. Right now, contrary to the miracle resting upon a cot before him, recovery for the Inquisition seemed hopeless.

He turned to join the others.

* * *

**Preparing Skyhold**

_You stayed behind. You could have—I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word._

Cullen’s vow to the now-Inquisitor echoed in his mind whenever the work of building up the Inquisition’s forces wearied him. His vow _and_ the hopeful look she’d shown him when using his given name—for a second time. Hearing it had made him grow a foot taller. If she used it a third time, would he begin to float?

He would soon no longer need the makeshift desk in Skyhold’s lower courtyard for assigning duties, penning letters, and receiving reports. Even now, soldiers were clearing one of the towers where they’d found a desk in good working condition. He’d sleep one floor above.

And not a moment too soon. The small table he’d been using was choked with missives, and he expected many more—eagerly awaited two in particular. One with information pertaining to the Red Templars’ whereabouts, and another from one of his contacts in Ferelden who might be able to procure the diaries that Evel—that the Inquisitor had wanted. _I mustn’t use her name overmuch. Such familiarity would give way to hope._ Nevertheless, he looked forward to seeing the sort of expression she might make if his contact came through. Would it be awe? Delight?

He got his answer later that day. One of his subordinates, bound for his new office, left carrying nearly the last of the many papers that had piled up on his little courtyard table. A moment later, a courier approached.

“Ser! A reply from Knight-Captain Gabriel Haider.” The courier held a thick packet in her hand. Far thicker than a single letter.

“Knight- _Captain_?” he mused aloud. It seemed his old acquaintance had secured a promotion. “Well done, Haider.” He took the packet. To the courier, he said, “No need for a reply at the moment.”

“Ser,” she acknowledged before leaving.

Haider’s wit was still quite evident in his letter, but he wrote of the war between Templars and mages with a sober tone. As for Cullen’s request, Haider had indeed managed to secure a copy of the diaries. _How_ he’d managed it, Haider did not say. Cullen was considering writing a reply and asking Haider to join the Inquisition when—

“Commander, do you have a moment?”

He looked up. The Inquisitor was not wearing her usual light armor, but rather a fitted brocaded jacket and leather trousers that hugged every curve. He cleared his throat.

“Of course”— _Evelyn_ — “Inquisitor. Was there something you needed?”

“I was…hoping for an update on how our forces are settling into Skyhold.”

Her slight hesitation made him think she’d come up with that on the spot. Had she forgotten what she’d meant to ask him, or…was she simply making conversation? His heart swooped down to his toes, but rather than stammer in reply, he thankfully had a ready answer. He gave her an update on repairs to the fortifications as well as the latest reports from their scouts of any threats in the surrounding area. She nodded attentively.

“Excellent. You’ll…let me know if you need anything?”

_You._ The word popped into his head before he could even realize she’d been referring to his duties as Commander. Then he glanced at the volume in his hand, and his stomach tightened with excitement. “Actually, I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

“You once mentioned having difficulty obtaining the diaries of a Fereldan Templar,” he reminded her. “He was…writing of his final years?” _Of his dementia._ Cullen tried not to picture the lyrium kit he’d already stowed in a drawer of his desk. The one he hadn’t made use of since he’d joined.

The Inquisitor blinked, lips parting. Her eyes flicked to the packet in his hand. “Yes? Is that…?”

“I wrote to an acquaintance of mine, Templar Haider—well, Knight-Captain Haider now. We worked together at the Circle at Lake Calenhad, but he transferred a few months before…the troubles there.” Pushing past the brief reminder of that terrible night, Cullen held the tome out to her. “At my request, Haider found and sent a copy of the diaries.” The Inquisitor straightened, joy spreading across her face. Maker, the sight of it made his lungs shrink. His words came out raspy. “There’s three here, bound together in one volume.”

“Commander, I—” She accepted the diaries with a smile that dazzled, though she still seemed in disbelief. Then the corners of her eyes crinkled with delight. Yes, there it was. Warmth washed over him, stirring wants in him he hadn’t turned a thought to in some time. Wants like soft heat and sweet gasps. She shyly caught her lower lip between her teeth, a motion that did nothing to dim her radiance, and held the book against her chest. “Thank you, Cullen.”

She’d said it a third time. Indeed, he was floating. His reply came out lower and rougher than he’d intended, betraying his affection. “I am at your service.”

“I…” She blinked, swallowed. Maker, the look in her eyes. She appeared surprised yet exhilarated. Did she also…? No, he could not foster such hope. Could he? “Y-Your acquaintance, Knight-Captain Haider—please give him my thanks as well.”

He nodded. “I shall.”

She returned his nod. “Well then.” She glanced at the volume in her hands and began to move away, but hesitated.

“Was there something else you needed?”

She lifted her head. “Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?”

Her question was so sudden that he gave his usual answer. “No. I fear I made few friends there, and my family’s in Ferelden.” _I wrote to Haider before writing to them._

Then the realization hit him. She wondered if his heart already belonged to someone. The implication put sweet pressure on that same organ.

“No one special caught your interest?” she asked, her tone mild, but her eyes were full of mischief.

She sought confirmation, and by Andraste, he would gladly give that to her. “Not in _Kirkwall_.” His tone was also mild, but his emphasis on the last had been deliberate.

Her lips spread into an impish smile. She tapped her thumb on the volume of diaries and walked away without another word.

He would’ve watched the way her leather pants clung to her legs as she ascended the stairs to Skyhold’s main keep, but his subordinate chose that moment to return for the last of the documents on his temporary desk.

“Good news, ser?” the soldier asked.

Cullen shook his head in confusion. “What’s that?”

“You were smiling, Commander.”

Had he been? “Oh, I—” He looked at the letter from Haider still in his grasp, then at the courtyard stairs in time to see the Inquisitor disappear through the archway at the top. He smiled again. “Yes, it’s good news.”

* * *

**A Game of Chess**

Cullen glanced across the chessboard at Dorian, his opponent, who had just moved one of his most vital pieces out of danger. The Tevinter mage was good, but not as good as him. Already he could see two other opportunities to claim the black tower piece. One route was riskier but could take Dorian by surprise. If he could get one of his champions into position…

“Do you put as much thought and ambition into your love life as you do a game of chess, Commander?” Dorian drawled. Cullen looked up with a start. “Why am I even asking.” Dorian held up his hands. “I already know you don’t.”

“What _are_ you talking about?” He was grateful his response came out sounding normal, for he knew exactly what Dorian was talking about. He also knew “the Vint” was trying to distract him so he could win. It wouldn’t work.

“Oh, come now. You and the Inquisitor have been sharing lingering glances like a pair of overdramatic Orlesian performers in the season’s most popular tragedy.”

Cullen couldn’t help a chuckle at the vivid mental picture, which helped further cover up the truth: that he had, in fact, been pining. Ill-advisedly. He moved one of his cavalry first—bait that would cover his champion’s move.

“I’ve an excellent vantage from the library, you know. Your exchange three days ago was so sweet it nearly gave me a toothache.”

Cullen made a show of recalling the conversation as though he didn’t remember the moment with relish a dozen times a day. “The book? I believe the Inquisitor was happier about receiving it than who gifted it.”

Dorian leaned forward and flashed a devilish smile. “You meant it as a gift? How romantic.”

Cullen refrained from cursing out loud. Barely. “It’s your turn. Are you going to play or not?”

His opponent captured the cavalry he’d just moved, which left Dorian unable to counter his champion, at least for a turn or two. “So testy. You know your feelings are mutual, right? You and the Inquisitor. Why hesitate?”

He cast his gaze about the board and confirmed Dorian was at least one move from endangering his more powerful pieces. “Even if there were any truth to what you think you’ve seen—”

“To what anyone with eyes has seen.”

He moved his champion with more force than necessary, supposedly out of danger but he was actually two moves from claiming the black tower. “Have you considered that the war has taken priority over such things?”

“Commander, the war is _precisely_ why ‘such things’”—Dorian flicked his hand mockingly—“as attraction must be given priority. Seize a scrap of joy while you can.” The mage moved one of his cache pieces, blocking in Cullen’s dragon-slayer on one side. He was closing in.

“The Inquisitor is not a scrap.” Cullen moved his dragon-slayer, putting it two moves away from the closest enemy. “And the war is more than just the Inquisition versus Corypheus and his Red Templars.”

“Ah, yes. The southern Chantry and its obsession with shackling mages. I suppose that does make ‘such things’ between a mage and a former Templar awkward.” Dorian moved another cache piece, clearly fixated on boxing in Cullen’s dragon-slayer. “Did you know the Inquisitor visits you far more often than her other companions or advisors? That she’s more likely to stop by if she knows you’re alone?”

Taken by surprise again, Cullen locked eyes with the Tevinter mage. “She does?” Maker, how he hated the soft eagerness in his voice.

“Only yesterday she idled on the bridge to your tower and didn’t approach until your scouts had left your office.”

“She…is simply anxious for word on Samson, I’m sure.” At least, that had been her stated reason for visiting his office.

“And the ‘alone’ part?” Dorian moved one of his pieces, the corner of his mouth curled in a tiny smile, but Cullen wasn’t particularly interested in the board at the moment.

“She is…aware of my history with Samson and perhaps believes I would be more candid without an audience.”

“Your logical evasions are remarkable.” The mage’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “But indeed, I have no doubt the Inquisitor desires more _candor_ from you.”

Aware of the sudden heat in his face, Cullen glared down at the chessboard. They had apparently each made a move without him being entirely aware. Thankfully, his subconscious had stuck to his riskier strategy. In fact, Dorian would soon be finished. The impending win filled Cullen with confidence.

Dorian claimed Cullen’s second cavalry, but no move would save his black tower. The mage chuckled, oblivious. “I’m capturing your forces faster than you can bottle up your feelings.”

This time, he didn’t take Dorian’s bait. “Gloat all you like. I have this one.” He moved his champion into position. One more move.

“Are you _sassing_ me, Commander? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He sighed. “Why do I even—” A movement out of the corner of his eye brought his head around. “Inquisitor.”

Heart leaping, he moved to stand out of respect—and out of a flare of shame to be seen at leisure when there was a war on. But, as the Inquisitor approached the table they’d set up beneath a stone arbor within Skyhold’s garden, she motioned for him to resume his seat. She wore her more informal attire, although this time her jacket was wine red. The color brought out the pink hues of her cheeks and lips.

“Leaving, are we? Does this mean I win?” Dorian snarked, regaining Cullen’s attention.

Leave? When he was one move from winning? In front of the Inquisitor, no less?

“Are you two playing nice?” the Inquisitor asked, crossing her arms.

Dorian glanced from her to Cullen. A corner of his mouth kicked up. “I’m _always_ nice.”

Yes, someone as self-important as Dorian no doubt thought he was the essence of magnanimity even as he stuck his patrician nose into the personal affairs of others.

“You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory,” Dorian boasted. “You’ll feel much better.”

“Really?” Cullen made his final move, placing his champion in the hexagon from which Dorian’s black tower could not escape. “Because I just won. And I feel fine.” In fact, he felt glorious, having trounced Dorian despite the mage’s best efforts to disturb his concentration.

To Dorian’s credit, however, he took his loss in stride. Mostly. “Don’t get smug. There will be no living with you.” With that, the mage took his leave.

And Cullen had already spent long enough away from his work. Not that he had any more letters to write or reports to read at the moment. But he could find something. Or, more likely, work would find him.

Still glowing from his win, he faced the Inquisitor, who looked at him expectantly. “I should return to my duties as well…” Then a thought occurred to him. “Unless you would care for a game?” _Please say yes_ , his inner voice pleaded. The weather was fine, the garden peaceful, and his confidence high.

“Prepare the board, Commander,” she said, though the sparkle in her eyes would have been answer enough. She approached Dorian’s vacated seat. As Cullen reset the opposing sets of pieces, he told her of playing chess as a child with his siblings, and of how long had passed since he’d last seen them. _Or written to them._ He really should write his sister, at least. He hadn’t updated her since he’d joined the Inquisition. Knowing Mia, however, he wouldn’t be surprised to receive a letter from her before he could write his own. She had always been good at tracking him down.

“Ah, it’s my turn,” he said, reaching for one of his cache pieces.

The Inquisitor responded with a bold move. “All right, let’s see what you’ve got.”

They played in silence for a while, sometimes pondering their next move for several moments at a time. At first, Cullen snuck glimpses of her, then longer glances when her pensive expression remained fixed on the chessboard.

She…Evelyn…really was beautiful. Magically talented, too. And brave. Also clever. She was certainly offering him more challenge at the moment than Dorian had. But her intelligence wasn’t drawing his gaze at the moment—rather, he couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. She occasionally moistened her lips, or quirked them in thought, or caught the lower one between her teeth. He tried to imagine them parting beneath his mouth, opening up for his—

She leaned forward to make her next move. Blinking, he shook his head as if scattering his delectable fantasy, and focused on the chessboard between them. Fade take him, she was skilled. He had options but none of them good. Her positioning was quite advantageous. He would have to be on the defensive for a few turns.

“One of my instructors at the Circle taught me how to play,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “Well, me and a few others. It was a good way to pass the time when we weren’t studying or practicing our basics. We focused on learning the best strategies rather than…thinking of other things.”

He moved one of his cavalry out of danger. “Other things?” he asked, curious to know what she meant exactly. When he’d been a Templar, he hadn’t thought much about his charges’ extracurricular activities other than whether they were prohibited or not.

“Oh, all sorts of things.” She claimed one of his cache pieces, and he realized she now threatened his second-most powerful piece. “For some, an upcoming Harrowing. For others, it was whether our families were well. Sometimes it was loneliness…”

“The Circles are rather isolating,” he conceded. He pictured her seated at a table much like the one between them, but by a window high in a tower. She wore a Circle mage’s robe and gazed sadly at the distant landscape. All her beauty, talent, bravery, and cleverness locked away. But so would the risk she posed to others.

And yet, sitting there across from her in a quiet garden over a game of chess, he could not imagine such a formidable woman ever falling prey to a demon. In fact, he would rather not attempt to imagine such a thing at all.

Especially not when he had much better daydreams to occupy his quieter moments.

Their game proceeded apace. He claimed two of her pieces but suspected she had given them up on purpose. Meanwhile, she took three of his.

“Blast,” he said, chuckling. “I thought for sure you wouldn’t see that coming.”

She put aside her trophy with adorable smugness. “Everyone relies on the champion too much.”

After he made his next move, a conversation on the other side of the garden briefly drew his attention. He glanced at Evelyn’s quiet concentration and realized he felt quite at ease. And thoroughly charmed.

“This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition—or related matters,” he observed, skipping over the topic of the Mage-Templar war. “To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

She glanced at him, but then her gaze flitted away as she moved one of her griffons. “We should spend more time together,” she suggested with an ounce of shyness.

A thrill went through him, bringing out a smile. “I would like that.” _Far more than you know._

This time her eyes didn’t stray, and the sincerity in them mirrored his own. “Me too.”

Verily, her suggestion to spend time together meant _wanting_ to be in his presence, but hearing her admit it, and with such interest in her expression… Maker’s breath.

His voice gentled. “I look forward to it.” _And to seeing more of you._ She gave him a small smile. “We should…finish our game. Right? My turn?”

He did his best to counter her moves—even managed to claim one of her griffons—but he couldn’t prevent the inevitable. And Fade take him, losing to her was actually enjoyable.

“I believe this one is yours. Well played,” he said as she made her final move, trapping his dragon-slayer. She didn’t smile at his praise, but she looked pleased all the same. She was stunning, truly. In many ways. “We shall have to try again sometime.”

She leaned toward him, and he was struck by the graceful line of her neck, especially where it disappeared into her collar. “We could play another round at the tavern—when you’re available,” she hastened to add.

Softer lighting, some food and drink, and bardic accompaniment? It would be well worth the many glances they’d earn from the other patrons. He might even leave his armor in his office. He mirrored her position, setting his elbows on his knees. “Then I shall endeavor to be available as soon as possible.”

She said nothing in immediate reply, merely gave him that indulgent smile of hers. Maker, it undid him. How would he react to seeing it in a candlelit room? Or in private? Perhaps from the other side of his darkened office. Or the other side of his bed.

She glanced at the chessboard. “Need help cleaning up?”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, no.” A few moments to collect not just the chess set but also himself would do him a lot of good.

A page with excellent timing waved to the Inquisitor from the door leading to the main hall. She acknowledged him with a nod and rose to her feet. “I believe an important guest has arrived at last.”

“Would this be Varric’s guest?” he asked, deadpan.

“It would.”

“Then I shall pray that he survives the day.” The quip earned him a small puff of laughter, but he wasn’t entirely jesting. _Lady Cassandra really might kill him._ “Until next time, Inquisitor.”

She gave him one last warm glance. “Commander,” she said in farewell, but the way she said it, as intimately as though it were his given name…

Only once she was out of sight was he able to breathe fully again. He relaxed into his chair with a sigh. “Andraste preserve me.”


	3. The Scent of Your Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a small change to how Skyhold's tavern is laid out. It made sense in-game not to put too many tables in the player character's way, but I've added more tables to the second floor. Also, there's lots of English accents in the game and real-life Brits call the first floor of a building the "ground floor" and the second floor the "first floor," but I'm a filthy American so I'm sticking to the American terms for the levels of a building.

**Herald’s Rest**

When Evelyn returned from Crestwood, she barely had time to wash off the dust of the road and change into clean clothes before heading to Herald’s Rest for her game of chess with Cullen. By the time she left her private quarters, the sun was setting and the chill of evening hung in the air. Dinner time. As she descended the steps of the main hall to cross the upper courtyard, she worried the tavern would be crowded with onlookers and too loud for conversation—or worse, that there’d be no tables free.

Warmth and the smell of ale and hot food greeted her when she crossed the tavern’s threshold. So did the din of a dozen conversations. Her heart fell as she looked around at all the Inquisition scouts and soldiers. She could hardly hear the tavern bard, Maryden. Every table was full and surrounded by those forced to stand, often with a tankard of ale in hand. A few of them turned at her entrance and saluted, which she acknowledged with a nod.

Where was Cullen?

She did a quick sweep of the first floor. Laughter rang out from many groups, but the loudest party was Iron Bull’s. As usual, he and his Chargers had taken up the wide alcove past the stairs, where they drank and swapped stories. Lately, they preferred hearing of her, Bull, Varric, and Dorian taking down the Fereldan Frostback that had been roosting not far from the Crossroads in the Hinterlands.

“You know, Chief, you could have belly-flopped on the beast and killed it instantly with your girth,” Krem joked.

Bull glowered at his second-in-command. “I’m all muscle, Krem,” he growled, thumping his fist against his wide chest.

Evelyn couldn’t help a small smile. Krem’s teasing was a little mean, but Bull could handle it. Her foot was on the first step of the stairs leading to the second floor when her eyes met Bull’s.

He gestured at the stairs with his enormous mug of alcohol. “Upstairs and take a left, Boss,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

She blinked in surprise—and nearly blushed—but she was too happy to know where to find Cullen that she brushed off any embarrassment. Of course Iron Bull would know of her interest in the Commander and that he had already arrived. Bull was, after all, a Qunari spy trained in observation.

Bull went back to his conversation with his Chargers, and Evelyn ascended the stairs.

The second floor of the tavern was a little dimmer, a lot cozier, and thankfully less full. Fewer standees, softer conversations. If she kept making lefts, she’d end up in the small room Sera had claimed for herself, but she only had to make one left turn before coming upon the table Cullen had readied for their game. The table was tucked into the corner, a window on the left and a solid wall on the right, and a nearby standing candelabrum cast a warm glow on the prepared chess board—as well as the wide-shouldered man sitting with his back to the window.

Cullen spotted her coming up the stairs and gallantly rose to his feet. Rather than his armor, he wore black formal Inquisition attire, only without the sash. Bright-gold embroidery decorated the high collar, the simplistic epaulettes, the button holes on the chest, and the cuffs of the sleeves. He had left his jacket undone, revealing his soft white undershirt. A lock of his normally slicked-back hair had escaped to hang handsomely over his forehead.

She swallowed at how devastatingly attractive he was before attempting a friendly smile. She wanted to be mature and alluring, and that required being somewhat in control of herself, but all she could think about was slipping her hands inside his open jacket and discovering the warm, hard planes of his body.

“Welcome back to Skyhold, Inquisitor,” he greeted once she was close enough. Oh, how she had missed his voice. Like fur on naked skin.

Now was the perfect opportunity to ask him to call her by her given name, but with several other patrons well within earshot, she lost her nerve and the request died in her throat. “Thank you,” she said instead. “I’m glad to be back, even though it’s only for a couple of days.”

His voice was somber. “Yes, I read the letter you sent ahead to Leliana. I think we all hoped for better news.” Indeed, it had been news so dire she hoped Cullen wouldn’t pursue further discussion of it. She didn’t want to think about what could happen if, as Warden Alistair had warned, his Grey Warden brethren all sided with Corypheus, even unknowingly. She would leave the day after tomorrow to meet him and Hawke in the Western Approach.

Tonight, however, she would enjoy Cullen’s company.

She indicated the table beside them. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all.” He smiled and it was so handsome her stomach clenched. “Although you wouldn’t guess what I had to do to get a table.”

“Nothing too evil, I hope,” she said as he walked around her to pull out her chair. The small gesture sent a thrill through her. And Maker’s breath, he smelled wonderful. A spicy, woody aroma that nearly had her turning toward him to breathe it in. The last time she had been this close to him, the smell of armor polish and leather had dominated. All the other Templars she’d ever been within scenting distance of had smelled of burnt ozone—a result of their regular ingestion of lyrium—but not Cullen. How odd.

“Ah, no,” he said with a chuckle. She took her place and he pushed her chair in. “I thought about using my title as Commander to clear a table, but instead I asked Cabot to reserve one.”

“Oh no,” she said with a laugh, instantly understanding. Cabot the bartender was so surly it was a wonder the drinks didn’t all come out bitter and undrinkable. “What was that conversation even like?”

“He was surprisingly reasonable.” Cullen resumed his seat across from her. “Quite curt, but he didn’t balk at the request.”

“I suppose he would be tolerant as long as you weren’t asking him for rumors or news.” She crossed her arms on the table and leaned over it. “I made that mistake and now he scowls at the sight of me.”

He gave a puff of laughter, and his wide lips spread into an easy grin that sent a hot shiver down her spine. Oh, she wanted to kiss him. Unthinkingly, she pressed forward, feet braced, arms taking on more of her weight. She had only moved an inch, but she was shocked her body couldn’t entirely hide what her heart secretly wanted.

Worse, Cullen seemed to notice her gaze on his mouth. His grin faded and he cleared his throat. She met his eyes again only to watch him glance away. _Remember where you are, Evelyn._ She eased back into her chair.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asked him. He looked up with a small start. “I’m famished, and I don’t want that to distract me from our game.”

“Forgive me,” he stammered. “I meant to ask a server for one of their assortment plates, but…” He clenched his hands into fists as though silently censuring himself. It was so adorable her chest ached. She knew she should reassure him, but he was so fun to tease.

“But?” she prodded.

“I was…too busy setting up the board.”

His response felt like a dodge and the poor man was stiff with nerves. She shouldn’t want to torture him further, and yet… “Eager for another chance to conquer me?”

Her question came out huskier than she’d intended, but she didn’t feel a whit of shame or regret. Even in the soft glow of candlelight, she could see his face turning red. She wondered if he were aware of how he was repeatedly balling his hands, his leather gloves creaking in protest. He didn’t plan on wearing those during dinner, did he?

“Inquisitor, Commander,” a female voice interjected. “Might I get either of you anything to eat or drink?” One of the tavern’s servers had arrived to check on them. Cullen sagged with relief.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” he softly muttered.

They ended up ordering a pint of ale each, a plate of assorted finger foods, and a bowl each of the vegetable stew everyone else was inhaling. The server bobbed a quick curtsy and went to retrieve their dinners. At the same moment, a good impression of a dragon’s roar carried up from downstairs, followed by shouts of laughter.

“Is he still going on about killing that dragon?” Cullen asked with a smiling glance in her direction. “Wasn’t that almost two weeks ago?”

“You heard about that?”

“Of course. Iron Bull, Varric, and Dorian each sent letters about it to Skyhold. I found their differing perspectives quite interesting.”

She laughed. “Let me guess. Bull went on and on about how wonderfully ferocious the dragon was, Varric complained about nearly dying but admitted the experience would make for quite an exciting scene in a novel, and Dorian completely overstated the ease with which we took down the beast. Sound about right?”

His eyes crinkled and his smile was relaxed again. Teasing him was fun, but she also liked seeing him comfortable enough in her presence to let down his guard and put aside formality. Only then did he send those distressingly handsome smiles her way. Each was another log on the bonfire of affection burning in her chest.

“How astute,” he said, practically purring with amusement. Andraste’s tears, his voice had her pressing her thighs together. She could just imagine that same tone in the soft quiet of a bedroom, floating down from a few inches above her. “I couldn’t decide which account was most entertaining, and I would love to hear your version. Downing a high dragon is quite a feat. I’m impressed.”

It was her turn to blush. She could hardly suppress an elated smile and found herself trying to shrug off the compliment. “Not much to tell. I was too busy maintaining shields on everyone to pay attention to much else. I’m glad Dorian was there to shield whoever I couldn’t. Iron Bull kept the dragon’s rage centered on him, and Varric threw every bomb and bolt he had at the beast’s flank. Eventually, it swayed and fell. I don’t think my heart slowed down until we rested that night.”

“Your humility does you a lot of credit.” His voice was gentle, even affectionate, and the sound of it made her breath catch. “The one thing all three of your companions’ letters had in common was their praise of you. Iron Bull was eager to face the dragon, but he said you were the one to lead them on the field, and he respected your accurate estimation of the battle. Varric wrote that fighting alongside you reminded him of his time with the Champion of Kirkwall. His exact words were ‘There’s nothing like being on the winning side of an epic ass-kicking.’ And Dorian credited your party’s survival to your unparalleled command of magic. He said he hardly had to spare any effort on shielding the others and yet saw you pummeling the dragon with fire spells.”

By the time Cullen was done listing off all her companions’ compliments, her cheeks were red enough to be giving off heat, she was certain. The pride shining from Cullen’s face made her insides swoop, and though meeting his warm gaze was sweet misery, she couldn’t look away. No wonder he looked so discomforted whenever she tried to charm him. Such attentions were an agony.

“That was very kind of them,” she said, though she couldn’t speak much louder than a whisper. Not when his dark eyes were tracing her features.

“I don’t think it was kindness driving them but loyalty. There aren’t many people who could earn the trust of a Tevinter mage, a Qunari spy, and a smart-mouthed dwarven storyteller born and raised in Kirkwall.”

“Commander, please.” She fixed her gaze on her lap and curled her fingers into her thighs. Her heart would beat out of her chest if he didn’t stop exalting her. “It’s not me. We are all simply united in purpose.”

From the edge of her vision, she saw him lean closer. He spoke low, voice carrying only as far as her ears. “Perhaps at first, but your companions remain because of you. They see what I see. A true leader.”

“That’s not…” _That’s not how I want you to see me._ At least, that wasn’t all. She took a bracing breath. “What about a former Templar? Could a mage earn his trust?” She looked up in time to see his throat convulse with a hard swallow.

“He alre—”

“Here we are” came the sing-song voice of the server, who arrived with a heavily laden tray and a swish of skirts. Evelyn and Cullen both straightened with surprise. The server plopped down bowls of stew and mugs of ale. The plate of assortments included small sausages, bite-sized meat pies, cubes of a variety of cheeses, and a few small fruits. With the chessboard already taking up more than half the table, there was hardly a square inch of space left.

“Anything else I can get you?” the server asked.

Evelyn glanced at Cullen and his inscrutable expression.

_I like you, Cullen. Do you feel the same about me?_ Can _you feel the same about a mage?_ How hard was it to say that, really? But here in the tavern wasn’t the place. Not with so many soldiers, envoys, and Inquisition staff around to hear their conversation. Now was the time to get to know one another better, not ask after the contents of Cullen’s heart.

“No, thank you,” she said to the server, who bobbed again and strode away. Desperate to move on before Cullen could finish his earlier thought, she gestured at the crowded tabletop. “I suppose we have no choice but to eat first. Unless you think you can manage?”

He tugged off his gloves with a wry smile. “We can certainly try.”

“I believe you go first, then.” She bit into one of the small sausages from the plate of assortments and eyed his bare hand as he reached over his bowl of stew for one of his cache pieces. She had technically seen his hands the night of the attack on Haven when he’d slid his gloves over her frozen fingers, but she hadn’t taken the time to appreciate their obvious strength.

They were also shaking a little.

She wanted to ask if he was all right, but if his hands were trembling for the same reason that her palms were hot and damp, she’d rather not draw attention to it.

They ate while they played. By the time they had polished off their stew and were ready for more ale, Cullen had trapped her black tower piece.

She tipped over her tower and grinned across the table at him. She really thought she had him, but then suddenly her pieces were disappearing faster than the petit fours at an Orlesian gala. “Congratulations, Commander.”

“Well, now that I know you keep a wary eye on your enemy champions… And thank you. I feel rather vindicated.” He sat back in his chair as though it were a throne and he a roguish king—leaned to one side, chin gently resting on his knuckles. She didn’t need to peek beneath the table to know his knees were spread wide in dominance. Oh, if only she could slip from her seat and take advantage of his open position. She licked her lips.

“Care for another game?” she asked.

Cullen looked around at the second floor of the tavern. A couple of tables were now empty. The noise level had fallen. He lifted his empty tankard. “I am thirsty, still.”

She glanced at the plate of assortments. “And we haven’t finished all these tasty little meat pies.”

As if they had summoned her, their server came sweeping up the stairs with a tray from the kitchens. Once she had delivered its contents to another table, Cullen waved her over. She took their empty bowls and tankards and promised to return promptly with more ale. While they waited, Evelyn helped reset the board.

“Shall I play black this time?” he offered.

“No, stick with white.”

“That means I’ll move first again.”

She met his gaze and tried not to smile. “This time when I beat you, I want you to know you had every advantage.”

He gave her another of his heartrending grins. How dare he look so handsome. It wasn’t fair. “Do your worst.”

Evelyn had made her second move by the time the server returned with fresh mugs of ale. They carefully clunked them together. She would have to drink this second round much slower. She was already tipsy, and she did want to win their current game. As it progressed, she noticed Cullen was also taking smaller sips.

“Damn, you’ve given me nowhere to go,” he lamented, staring at the board as he absentmindedly reached for the last of their finger foods. He paused before touching it, a miniature shortcrust pie stuffed with minced lamb and spices. “Did you want this?”

She raised her hands in surrender. “I’m quite full, thank you.”

He ate the last meat pie while deciding his next move. Sighing with resignation, he chose the piece he was least loath to part with and moved it right where her champion could—and would—claim it. His hand no longer shook.

“I read those diaries you obtained for me,” she said in an attempt to distract him from his grief over his lost cavalry piece, which she captured and set aside. “Several times, in fact.”

Dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin, he looked at her with a guarded expression. “Were they helpful?”

“Yes, although as usual I’m left with even more questions.” She braced her elbow on the table and set her chin in her hand. “I understand if you don’t wish to talk about it.”

He sat back from the table. “Lyrium dementia is certainly not a typical dinner topic.”

“Nor a pleasant one in general,” she agreed. “The man’s final entries were heartbreaking. But sometimes beautiful.”

Interest sparked in his eyes. “How so?”

“Near the end, his thoughts are so confused, but it seemed the act of writing was cathartic for him, if not curative.” As she spoke, she toyed with the intricately carved head of one of the griffon chess pieces. “Memory and reality and dream all converged, and he described it as hearing several songs at the same time. Discordant. Painful. More so than the fatigue and the thirst. But his last entry, which his caretaker transcribed… In it, he is transcended. The songs are one at last, and it comforts him.” She looked up at Cullen’s intense stare. “His caretaker wrote a small note at the end, saying he died at peace.”

Cullen tore his gaze away and breathed out hard. “Even if I had the time, I don’t know if I could stand to read such an account.” This time when he reached for his ale, he took several large swallows. “You said you were left with more questions?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about his description of a song.” She leaned forward, fascination tinging her voice with urgency. “We know lyrium sings. Mages have heard it—I have. Templars hear it.” She gestured toward him and he nodded. “Dwarves locate untapped lyrium veins by listening for its song. Red lyrium sings louder and deeper. And according to the Grey Wardens, darkspawn are drawn to the song of the Old Gods. Although I’m told their song is different.”

Cullen tapped his fingers on the table. “At the end of their lives, Grey Wardens hear what they describe as the Calling, and by tradition they descend into the Deep Roads to fight and find their death.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding eagerly. “Hawke’s Grey Warden friend said as much. And then I found myself thinking of the Chantry—or rather, the Chant of Light itself. It _is_ a song. It contains canticles, verses… Non-canonical verses are labeled ‘dissonant.’ We’re taught the Maker was so enchanted by Andraste’s song that he uplifted her to His side.”

“One of those dissonant verses, the Canticle of Silence, tells of the seven Magisters who breached the Golden City and through their corruption of it began the first Blight. The first of them, the High Priest of Dumat, was known as ‘the Conductor of the Choir of Silence.’”

She threw him a sly smile. “What’s this? A Templar studied a canticle stricken from the Chant?”

He gave a light laugh and shrugged. “We were allowed to read it only with the understanding that it was Tevinter propaganda written well after the Second Sin.” He glanced down at the chess board where their game had stalled. “It’s still my turn, isn’t it?”

She nodded absently. “I was also thinking about the Fade and dreams and Tranquil and dwarves… There’s _something_ there, I know it.” She watched Cullen’s next move—it was the best he could do and the move she would have made if she were in his place.

“Have you considered talking to Blackwall?” he asked. “He may have insights about the Grey Wardens and the Blight.”

She sighed. “He wasn’t as forthcoming as I’d have liked. And Warden Alistair had much more pressing concerns than answering my scholarly questions.”

“There’s always Cole,” he suggested, lips twitching with amusement.

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s actually not a bad idea.” She glanced at the nearby stairs leading to the mostly empty third floor, where Cole could sometimes be found. “Assuming I ever get eyes on him again.”

They turned to lighter topics as they continued their game. Cullen recounted his first few interactions with Varric and the Champion of Kirkwall. Evelyn spoke of her most recent travels and vowed never to venture out again with only male companions who complained of how long she took to answer nature’s call.

“And don’t get me started on how little Iron Bull cleans his greatsword,” she’d said with a shudder, earning a laugh.

“Speaking of nature’s call,” Cullen grumbled bashfully.

“Oh, thank you for saying something. All that ale.”

They took turns visiting the tavern’s privy before returning to their game.

Then at last, victory. Evelyn had lost many pieces, but so had he, and when she made her final move, she set her champion down with a firm tap. “Checkmate.”

He smiled and shook his head as he sat back. “That was hard won. I commend you.”

“Thank you. You certainly didn’t hold back…I hope.”

“I never give anything less than my all,” he assured her.

She looked him over, admiring once again the fine cut of his figure. “Yes, I don’t imagine you do.”

His smile slowly fell, but his gaze was steady and warm. Tingles washed over her, setting her heart racing. Heat pooled low in her belly. She moistened her suddenly dry lips.

“It’s getting late,” he murmured. “You’re no doubt tired.”

“Not that tired. You?” Maker, why did she have to sound so breathless?

He glanced at the chess board. “I can’t say I’m interested in another game at the moment.”

She gently shook her head. “Neither am I. In fact, I’d rather like a walk. Perhaps on the battlements?” Fewer sets of eyes, and possibly a moment alone. Hopefully several, especially if she found the courage to ask whether he could think of her as more than just a mage he had to keep his eye on.

His lips parted. He straightened in his chair. “F-Fresh air…sounds good.”

They worked quickly to pack up Cullen’s personal chess set into its case, and then stood to leave. Evelyn was about to suggest heading through the third-floor exit of the tavern to access the battlements when a young male voice called out.

“Inquisitor! Commander, ser!”

She glanced over her shoulder at an Inquisition messenger hurrying up the stairs toward them.

Cullen sighed beside her. “Oh, for the love of Andraste.”

“What is it?” she asked of the messenger.

“Sister Leliana has urgent news. She waits in the war room,” he said, out of breath.

“News about?” Cullen asked.

“Therinfal Redoubt. The templars there have gone quiet. She would like to discuss investigating further.”

“That...should be addressed now rather than in the morning,” he grumbled. “We shall go to the war room directly.”

“Understood, ser.”

Evelyn tasked the messenger with returning Cullen’s chess set to his office and headed downstairs with Cullen. Iron Bull still held court from his chair by the window, but the Chargers were now mostly engaged in quieter side conversations. Bull’s second-in-command, Krem, raised his hand to them from his seat across from the base of the stairs.

“The Chargers are itching to get back out there again, Inquisitor,” he called as they passed. Evelyn acknowledged the implied offer with a nod.

She and Cullen left Herald’s Rest. As they crossed the upper courtyard, a movement from him drew her attention. Eyebrows drawn tight, he rubbed a gloved hand across his forehead. A headache? Worry? Disappointment?

“I suppose this counts as a walk,” she said with a sad smile, one that he mirrored.

“I did enjoy myself while it lasted.”

“Me too.” _If only I could have had you to myself a little while longer._

The doors to the main hall were still wide open and they entered walking abreast. Varric was not in his usual place by the fireplace to the right. No doubt he was off somewhere spending time with his friend Hawke. Guards, officers, consultants, a few nobles, and a merchant or two still mingled among the long tables and tall statuary. Most saluted, bowed, or curtsied. Evelyn wasn’t surprised to see Josephine still working well into the evening. When she and Cullen entered Josie’s office on their way to the war room, she looked up from a stack of papers she was reading. Confusion narrowed her eyes.

“Commander, the clothes you’re wearing… Was there a meeting I wasn’t aware of?”

Cullen’s pace faltered. “No, I… I-it was nothing important.” He stiffened and glanced at Evelyn. “Not that I wasn’t engaged—or rather, invested in—”

“We were simply having dinner at the tavern,” Evelyn supplied, wondering at Cullen’s attempt to hide their activities. After all, a score of people had seen them sharing a table. But perhaps he felt differently about her other advisors knowing of their time spent together versus a handful of soldiers who would know not to make any comments in their presence.

Josephine raised her eyebrows. “Dinner?”

“Leliana is waiting for us,” Evelyn said, hopefully stifling any further curiosity. “Join us if you like.”

Their ambassador declined, and they went ahead to the war room. Unlike Josephine, Leliana made no comment about Cullen’s formal attire, though her eyes did linger on him. She informed them of a report from one of her scouts who had been keeping an eye on Therinfal Redoubt since before the attack on Haven just under a month ago. In the last week, almost all activity within the former training facility had ceased. The scout had attempted to learn more, and their last attempt was met with decidedly demonic resistance. At the mention of demons, Cullen went rigid at Evelyn’s side.

“Demons? How is that possible?” Evelyn asked.

“We won’t know until we send someone in to investigate,” Leliana replied. “Luckily, Iron Bull’s Chargers have offered their services. The only question is how to use them.”

An excellent idea. The Inquisition’s scouts were trained to avoid direct confrontation, although they could defend themselves if necessary. The Chargers, on the other hand…

Cullen suggested bolstering the Chargers’ numbers with Inquisition soldiers, but Evelyn ended up preferring Leliana’s idea of sneaking the mercenaries into Therinfal Redoubt using a distraction courtesy of her scouts already in the area. To his credit, Cullen accepted her decision without any argument.

“We’ve strong evidence the Red Templars came from there,” he said, “and there’s no doubt in my mind the Chargers will confirm our suspicions. They’ll need to be careful.”

“Agreed,” Leliana said. “I’ll send ahead word to our scouts. And someone should tell the Chargers to start sobering up. They’ll be leaving in the morning.” She headed for the door, no doubt on her way to the rookery.

Cullen turned to Evelyn, all business. “You’ve had a long day, Inquisitor. If you wish to retire to your quarters, I can return to the tavern to talk with Iron Bull.”

By the time he finished speaking, Leliana was well out of earshot. Evelyn wanted to suggest they return to Herald’s Rest together and then take that walk they’d spoken of, but Cullen’s professional tone put her off. She hid her disappointment as best as she could. Had she been pushing him too hard?

“Thank you, Commander. Wish the Chargers luck for me.”

“I shall.” He nodded and headed toward the door, so apparently unaffected by the abrupt end to their evening together that she felt silly. Then at the threshold, he paused and showed her his profile. His voice was low, intimate. “Good night, Evelyn.”

She held her breath, stunned but only for a heartbeat, thank the Maker. Joy lit her up. She was certain she glowed. “Good night, Cullen.” She caught a glimpse of a smile on his face before he continued on his way.

Tonight, she would have very pleasant dreams.


End file.
